Dynevor Terrace: or, the clue of life — Volume 2 eBook

By-and-by Mary disappeared. She would perhaps
have preferred her ordinary dress—­but the
bridal white seemed to her to be due both to Louis
and to the solemn rite and mystery; and when the time
came, she met him, in her plain white muslin and long
veil, confined by a few sprays of real orange flowers,
beneath which her calmly noble face was seen, simple
and collected as ever, forgetting in her earnestness
all adjuncts that might have been embarrassing or distressing.

The large hall was darkening with twilight, and the
flowers and branches that decked it showed gracefully
in the subdued light. Prayer and praise had lately
echoed there, and Louis and Mary could feel that He
was with them who blessed the pair at Cana, far distant
as they were from their own church—­their
own home. Yes, the Church, their mother, their
home, was with them in her sacred ritual and her choice
blessings, and their consciences were free from self-will,
or self-pleasing, such as would have put far from
them the precious gifts promised in the name of their
Lord.

When it was over, and they first raised their eyes
to one another’s faces, each beheld in the other
a look of entire thankful content, not the less perfect
because it was grave and peaceful.

‘I think mamma would be quite happy,’
said Mary.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Lord Ormersfield sat alone in the library, where the
fire burnt more for the sake of cheerfulness than
of warmth. His eyes were weary with reading,
and, taking off his spectacles, he turned his chair
away from the table, and sat gazing into the fire,
giving audience to dreamy thoughts.

He missed the sunny face ever prompt to watch his
moods, and find or make time for the cheerful word
or desultory chat which often broke and refreshed
drier occupation. He remembered when he had hardly
tolerated the glass of flowers, the scraps of drawing,
the unbusinesslike books at his son’s end of
the table, but the room looked dull without them now,
and he was ready to own the value of the grace and
finish of life, hindering the daily task from absorbing
the whole man, as had been the case with himself in
middle life.

Somewhat of the calm of old age had begun to fall
on the Earl, and he had latterly been wont to think
more deeply. These trifles could not have spoken
to his heart save for their connexion with his son,
and even Louis’s tastes would have worn out
with habit, had it not been for the radiance permanent
in his own mind, namely, the thankful, adoring love
that finds the true brightness in “whatsoever
things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever
things are of good report.” This spirit
it was which had kept his heart fresh, his spirit
youthful, and changed constitutional versatility into
a power of hearty adaptation to the least congenial
tastes.